Bourne (River of Time 3.1 Novella)

by Lisa Bergren

  She bobbed a curtsy and departed.

  "Father Tomas," I said, "please—lead as many of these horses as possible to outside the gates—just for a few hours. We need the space." He nodded and moved out.

  "What's your plan?" Lia asked.

  "We're going to triage this place. You know, figure out who is the most wounded. Put all the people in need of sutures in a couple of the halls. All the head wounds in another. Undiagnosed in the fourth. I don't suppose any of the quacks they call doctors wandered in with these guys, did they?"

  "There's one over there by the well," she said, nodding to the middle of the courtyard.

  Together, we moved over to him, watching as he carefully wound a bandage around an unconscious man's leg. I took in the bag beside him, open to display perhaps twenty different bottles inside, then back to the doctor, who was about my height but thinner—I probably outweighed him by a good ten pounds. He was maybe thirty years old, of average looks but with piercing eyes. They were super dark, while his skin was the color of a creamy cappuccino.

  "M'ladies," he said, rising to his feet and sweeping into a bow. "I am honored to be in your presence."

  "We have met?" I asked.

  "Nay. But no man of Toscana could miss the fabled Ladies Betarrini."

  "Lady Forelli," I corrected him casually. "Only my sister is yet a Betarrini."

  "Of course," he said, his dark eyes moving over to Lia. "My mistake," he said apologetically, bringing a hand to his chest and giving me another nod.

  "Your name, sir?"

  "Forgive me," he said with a laugh. "I'm afraid my weariness has left me with half my wits. I am Physici Sandro Menaggio."

  "We're relieved to have a physician with us, Signore Menaggio," I said.

  I studied him, trying to ignore the tinge of warning that shot up my neck, setting every hair on end. I was just paranoid, basing my feelings off the first time I'd met up with a doctor in medieval times. With the dude who tried to kill me. This guy's clothing spoke of his relative wealth. He dressed like a merchant. So he was probably a practicing physician, making some sort of living at it, I guessed. Which had to mean he didn't kill every patient.

  "Where did you learn the medical arts, Doctor?" Lia asked.

  "Germania," he muttered, bending to tend to a man beside him, swiftly tearing a strip of cloth from a bundle under his arm and wrapping it around the man's head.

  I shifted uneasily, and Lia and I avoided looking at each other. We weren't super fond of meeting anyone who had ever been in or near Northern Europe. There was just too much opportunity for questions about our fictional beginnings in England and "Normandy." And our safety here in Italia—as well as Mom and Dad's—was more secure if no one asked any questions of our past. Ever.

  "They have a fine university there," I said, eager to fill in the gap of silence. I was guessing. But didn't Germany have some of the oldest universities anywhere?

  "Indeed," he returned, to my relief, smiling to reveal a cute gap between his front teeth. It made him appear instantly friendlier. "You know of it?"

  "Only by reputation." I had to move on. Georgii and Lutterius had done as I asked, and every able-bodied man was now assembled by the front gate. The twins looked over their shoulders, waiting on me.

  "Tell me, Doctor. How did you come to be here inside the gates of Castello Forelli at such an opportune time?"

  He shrugged. "I heard the brunt of the battle was here and anticipated your need."

  "I see," I said, studying him. "And where do you reside?"

  "Siena, my lady."

  "There are noblemen in Siena who would recommend you?"

  "I believe so, m'lady."

  Still, I hesitated. Did I dare put my husband in his hands? "Did they teach you of methods to guard against infection at university?"

  "Indeed. But here," he said, gesturing about, "'tis difficult to control. I fear we must leave such things to God." He crossed himself.

  "I fear that God intends us to use the minds He gave us," I returned. "We would greatly value your assistance. But Lord Forelli is in immediate need of a physician's care and is my first priority. Would you kindly go and examine him, then report to me? Lady Evangelia shall show you the way."

  "Of course, m'lady," he said with a genteel bow. He was so thin and moved so lithely as he gathered up his bag, I decided he reminded me of a praying mantis.

  I pulled Lia a few steps aside. "We don't know this guy," I said in her ear. "Keep a dagger in your hand at all times." For good measure, I sent a fearsome-looking knight with her. He was monstrous and still had blood spattered over his face. Surely, even if Doctor Menaggio had evil intent, he would not move with our own Incredible Hulk and a She-Wolf in the room. Please, Lord, I added in prayer for good measure. Watch over them.

  Moving on, I straightened my shoulders, lifted my chin, and approached the men. Beyond them, Father Tomas and the stable boys and squires led horses out through the gates. I put my hands on my hips and walked back and forth before the forty men assembled. Some were remnants of the troops that had come to our aid via Marcello's mysterious brotherhood. Some were Sienese, still wearing their red tunics with the white cross. Others were mercenaries hired by Marcello.

  "We are going to organize this castello to best assist the wounded. That begins with assessing each patient and dividing them into groups. Already, there are dead in our halls. We owe each man a proper burial, respect. We will attempt to learn his name so we can see to his family. But dead men mixing with those who ail breeds illness. We must separate them and continue to do so as others pass on.

  "I need ten men to immediately remove the dead, bringing them to a line here," I said, gesturing to the wall to the left of the front gates. I turned and pointed to each wall of the pentagon-shaped castle. "For those of you unfamiliar with Castello Forelli, there are five corridors, accessed via the doors at each juncture." I identified the northeast, east, south, southwest, and west corridors. "I want every wounded man brought here to the courtyard. When Doctor Menaggio returns, he and I shall tell you where to take each man. After the corridors have been cleaned and dusted with lye."

  The men were frowning, clearly distrusting my plan. I knew they were reluctant to move men in pain if they didn't have to. Haven't they suffered enough? they silently asked me. And lye and hot water? Elements usually reserved for cleaning up, rather than as a preventative measure. "Grant me your trust, friends," I said. "I know if we do this, we shall save far more lives this day than if we do not."

  I watched in satisfaction as they set out to do as I asked. And in half an hour, the courtyard was teeming with all the wounded, in misery. Including my dad.

  "Dad!" I said, hurrying over to him. "You shouldn't be out of bed."

  "I'm okay," he said in my ear. "Far better than most of these. I can help you. Lia told me of your triage plan."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I'm sure," he said, giving me a firm nod. I glanced at his shoulder, seeping blood through the bandage and his loose shirt. Even though Mom liked to diagnose problems and try out her herbal remedies, it had been Dad who'd consistently looked after our scraped knees and elbows while we were growing up. And he had that look of Betarrini determination in his eyes....

  "All right," I said. "But if you feel woozy, you sit down and call for a cup of water. Deal?"

  "Deal."

  I straightened, suddenly feeling another's presence like I was being spied on. I turned. Doctor Menaggio, flanked by Lia and the knight. Inwardly, I cursed myself for my carelessness, using English in front of someone who might very well know a medieval form, not our contemporary dialect.

  "Oh, Doctor," I said, turning fully toward him. His dark eyes shifted between me and my dad; he'd clearly heard our whisperings. Before he could ask anything, I said, "What might you tell me of my husband?"

  "He still slumbers. I agreed with your mother's assessment; we must wait and see how he fares come morning. Your mother is rather gifted at the healing arts,"
he said, lifting a brow in admiration.

  "Indeed. Mayhap it's best if I summon her out here...."

  "Nay, m'lady," he said, gently. "M'lord's welfare is worth a hundred of these."

  Stunned, I stared back at him, doubting Marcello would agree with that. I knew my husband would trade his life in a heartbeat for a hundred others. Ten. But what would happen if he worsened, even died? I shook off the thought, deciding to take the doctor at his word.

  Giacinta called, waving at the northeast doorway.

  "Good. First hallway cleared. We'll put those in need of sutures there and see how many we have left. Anyone with experience suturing wounds, report to Lady Evangelia." I noticed several men snap to attention with uncommon interest now that they knew my sister would be a part of the team. I dispatched Doctor Menaggio to identify all those in need of suturing and binding. Knights began hauling patients back inside. I turned to Lia. "You'll see to the suture teams? One can administer hemlock for the pain, another wash up wounds. One can stitch, one can bind. Good?"

  She groaned, rolling her pretty blue eyes. "I seriously shoulda never stitched you up. Suddenly I'm a surgeon?"

  "Hey," I whispered back with a grin, "if it wasn't for those stitches, I might not have made it. At least you have hemlock for these guys. And think about this...you didn't have to endure years of bio and chem to earn your degree."

  "Methinks I'd prefer that," she said, narrowing her eyes. But she turned and trudged toward the corridor to do her duty. She'd always been better at elementary school cross-stitch projects than I. She'll do fine.

  "Lia—"

  "I know, Gabriella," she said, lifting a light brow. "Wash the wounds and needles before stitching."

  "Thank you," I said with a small grin.

  Cook came up to me next. "We have some stew and bread ready."

  "Enough for them all?"

  "Not to fill a man's belly," she said with a woeful tuck of her head, "but enough to put aside the ache."

  "Excellent." Belatedly, I remembered the man who had reached out to me earlier. I looked around for him but couldn't see him. "Please, send some girls around with pails of water and ladles, so we know each have had their fill to drink. Then take them their stew and bread." I squeezed her fat forearm. "Thank you, Cook. That will be some of the best medicine they shall receive."

  She grinned at me and waddled off.

  "M'lady!" a man screamed, reaching out to me with such terror in his eyes, I froze. He stretched so hard, I could see every sinew and muscle of his neck, shoulder, arm, hand. "Lady Forelli!"

  Hating that I was tentative, I moved toward him and knelt, taking his hand in mine. His breathing was coming fast and shallow, his color poor. Clearly dying. But he clung to my hand with the strength of a determined man. "My name..." he panted, "is Nuncio Mancini." He stared wildly at me, his eyes moving back and forth on mine, then slowly rolling as if he fought unconsciousness. Then they'd widen again. "I am of the village called Cavo. Please...m'lady..."

  "Yes?"

  "My wife...we only married...fortnight ago. Her name...tell her..."

  He choked, made an awful gurgling sound. He stared at me with such intensity, the words almost rising from his open lips. I love her. I'm sorry. And then his eyes froze. In the span of three seconds, I felt his strength fade, his hand go limp in my own.

  "Signore," I urged him, shaking his shoulder gently. "What is it you wish me to tell her? Signore!"

  Swallowing hard, I set his hand on his chest and reached to feel for a pulse. Maybe he's just lost consciousness, like Marcello. I waited a moment, then moved my fingers to a different place, hoping I'd just missed it. Please, please... But I hadn't.

  He was gone.

  I opened my eyes and stared at him a long moment. At his dark eyes, lined with thick lashes, staring sightlessly up into the sky. He was young, as so many in this time were. The cities were dominated by people under thirty. Old people were a scarcity, killed off by infection, accident, disease that no one could treat. They fared better in the countryside. But this one—he couldn't be more than twenty. And just married...

  A knot formed in my throat, thinking of his wife waiting by a window, a door, watching the horizon for his return now that the battle was over. A return that would never come.

  It crystallized my fear for Marcello. What if I held his hand this night and felt the life drain from him as well?

  No. God hadn't brought me all the way here to find love...just to lose it. Had He?

  I looked around, trying to focus on the next task. I am Lady Forelli. A lady of a castle doesn't get to lose it. Doesn't get to give in. She carries on. She freaks out in private if she has to. Never in public. Never, ever in public. I shivered, remembering my breakdown after our escape from Rome. The memory felt perilously familiar, close. As if it was a chasm I teetered near...

  I felt a warm hand on my shoulder, and Father Tomas knelt between me and Nuncio. He held his hand under the man's nose, waiting for breath, then squeezed my shoulder again. "He is gone. I shall see to his last rites. You shall see to another?"

  Slowly, I dragged my eyes to meet his, wanting him to see the wildness in them, wanting to silently admit my fear to him.

  He was safe for me. Safe.

  His own look became firm. "M'lady." He lifted me to my feet, his round hands on each of my shoulders. We were the same height, and he stared into my eyes. "Fear is not of the Lord. It is of the Enemy. Do not give in to it." He gave me a little shake, willing me to hear the impact of each of his words. Fear was of the Enemy. The Enemy. That was something I could grasp. Fight.

  I nodded and looked down. But still he held me. Silently waiting for me to draw strength from him, solace, hope. "Our lives are in His hands alone," he said softly. "We live only the days the Lord has granted us."

  "So it matters not how we live our lives? What we do?" I said, my anger choking out hope. "What we say? Whether we are good or evil?"

  He gave me a gentle smile. "Nay. Nay. 'Tis a great matter, how we conduct ourselves. That is what gives our lives depth, meaning. Regardless of how many days we are given to do so."

  I stared back at him, trying to decipher what he was attempting to tell me.

  "Fight the fear, Gabriella," he said, releasing me at last. "Cling to truth and hope and love. In the end, that is all we are promised." He shook his head, a wry grin in his eyes. "Nothing else."

  I nodded, confused as to why he was smiling when everything was so grim. Giving up, I numbly turned to answer questions from the servants and knights who awaited my attention as Father Tomas prayed over Nuncio. I tried to get Nuncio's bride—now a widow—out of my mind. Tried to forget that my own husband lingered in territory I didn't like at all. And after every question was answered, after every man was sent to his designated hall for care and the courtyard was cleared, I made myself move over to the line of dead men lying like tin soldiers as if they'd been toppled by the tips of God's fingers.

  Slowly, I walked by each of them, looking into their faces. Recognizing each as a husband, father, son, brother, neighbor, cousin, friend.

  And then I wept.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ~GABRIELLA~

  My eyes moved up to the guards on the walls and saw that they watched me, recognized my tears. Their faces told me they noted my compassion, bonded with me further because of it. But I looked away, unable to bear it. How long until they, too, were like these before me?

  "Patrol approaches!" called out a guard. "And a second, right behind them!"

  Rodolfo rode in first at a canter, astride his massive gray gelding, and caught sight of me and my tearstained face before I could duck my head. His men were right behind him, two of them clearly wounded. But his attention was solely on me. He whirled his horse around and dismounted before he was fully at a stop. He hurried over to me and eased an arm around my shoulders. "Gabriella," he said, his voice a moan in shared grief before he even knew what pained me. "Is it Marcello?"

  I glanced
at him in confusion. His tone held both fear and hope. Which outweighed the other? "Nay," I said, shaking my head and sliding out of his uncomfortably familiar embrace. The guards...everyone would see! See his obvious attention, undue care...

  "Then what burdens you so?" he asked, still holding my hand in both of his, insistent.

  But then the second patrol rode in, Luca at the front, his face a mask of fury. I did a double take, so unfamiliar was his expression. Gone was the playful, fun Luca; in his place was solely a warrior on point. "Greco!" he screamed, charging toward us.

  I frowned in confusion and alarm. Rodolfo took my hand and pulled me to the right to avoid Luca's horse, but this seemed to only aggravate Luca further. He jumped to the ground and ran toward us. Rodolfo eased me behind him, just before Luca struck him. Hard. A massive belt to the cheek.

  Rodolfo stumbled to the side, but kept his feet. And my hand.

  "Luca!" I cried, reaching out toward him with my other.

  But he ignored me, his attention only on Rodolfo. "Unhand m'lord's wife," he seethed.

  Rodolfo let go of my hand and lifted both of his to the air in a sign of submission. Luca moved so close that they were chest to chest, his face a snarl of challenge, while Rodolfo's was resigned.

  "Nay! Stop!" I cried, trying to part them but failing. "What...what has transpired?"

  "This man," Luca seethed, tapping Rodolfo's chest as if he wanted to pierce it, "went out there"—he gestured angrily above the wall—"with a wish to meet the Angel of Death."

  I glanced back in confusion, but Rodolfo just slowly wiped the blood from a small cut in his cheek and stared hard at Luca.

  "Of what do you speak?" I asked Luca, fully facing him now.

  "We came across more Fiorentini," he said, pacing, shaking his head as if trying to figure it out himself. "I commanded he hold in formation, to wait, but Rodolfo charged, instead. But for the hand of God, they all might've been killed."